


Semper Simul

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 07:36:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3720496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: RootxShaw Prompt-Two numbers this time, so the team had to split up. For some reason Harold thinks its best if Shaw goes with Fusco and Root goes with John. Shaw is slightly annoyed, Root even more so. Whilst Shaw is with Fusco staking their number out she hears John tell Harold that Root got injured. Shaw heads directly towards the subway to help Root and ignores Finch and John saying they can handle it. She doesnt care she needs to be with Root and threaten John for allowing Root to get hurt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Semper Simul

Shaw awakens to a muggy Monday morning, and her joints ache with stiffness. Yawning, she stretches the sleep from her limbs and sits up, feeling the comforter fall from her shoulders. Instantly, they are bathed in cold, and her eyes open wide. Looking around the room, she sees everything cast in a dull gray, and the slightest sound of drizzle meets her ears through the window.

Standing, Shaw quickly dresses in black jeans and a shirt, lacing up black high heel shoes before grabbing her trench coat and heading out the door. As she begins to travel down the sidewalk, the almost mist-like rain turns to walloping spheres that plop heavily over her head like water balloons. She stoops her head down, rage evaporating the water from her head as she broods over lacking a hood. Before her, each drop is like a bomb, and it hits the ground with a fatal splash, drowning every ant and bug with its size.

Another large raindrop splatters across the top of her head, and she jerks her head forward at the icy impact, eyes narrowing angrily. Around her, the rain grows heavier, each water balloon dropping faster to the ground, and she stuffs her hands in her jacket pockets, awaiting the watery assault to come. However, nothing does, and she hears the heavy patting of water hitting a resistant surface. Suspicious, she starts forward faster, only to be hit my a glob on her nose. She comes to a halt, shaking her face is surprise, eyes closed tight.

“I guess the little kitty cat doesn’t like getting her fur wet.”

* * *

 

A syrup-sweet voice comes to Shaw’s ears as the rain is once more deflected from hitting her. Looking straight up, she sees the translucent fabric of an umbrella, and turning her head to the right, she sees a familiar, smiling face.

“You following me?” Shaw asks accusingly, not returning the grin as she picks up her pace. Root matches it, remaining close in order to keep the two of them under the umbrella.

“No,” Root replies amiably, a sort of pleasure radiating from her, momentarily blocking out the gray of the world around them. “Just on my way to work when I saw a friend in need.”

“A little rain never hurt anyone,” Shaw mutters, keeping her head cast forward, trying hard to block out Root’s lively aura- with little success.

“It didn’t seem the case for you,” Root coos, leaning in on her. “You looked utterly  _distraught_.” She tries to maintain a straight face to go with a sympathetic voice, but finds a smile curving back onto her lips as she looks over at Shaw. Shaw gives her an unamused eye roll, wanting to shove her off or move away, but knowing either would end her back into the now down pour. She can already feel the damp chill eating at her bones, and would rather tough this one out than face more time with the rain than necessary. As they cut around the corner, Shaw feels a relief flood over her at seeing the subway’s concealed entrance.

The second they are in, Shaw briskly moves ahead, thankful for the coldness of the abandoned station. She can feel the heat that had been collecting in her tense body start to expel, and she doesn’t wait for Root to finish shaking out the umbrella before ducking further into the station’s depths.

____________\ If Your Number’s Up /_____________

“What do you mean, ’ _split up_ ’?” Shaw asks harshly, watching Harold with an underlying glower in her eyes. He looks back at her evenly, no longer threatened by her dangerous appearance.

From behind her, the rest of their less-than-conventional team stands, also having their doubts about Harold’s proposal. Root looks him over with slightly narrowed eyes, trying to decipher all of the Binary Code making up his thoughts.  _So many zeros and ones_ , she thinks to herself, giving him a half-smile as he catches her eye.  _So little time._

“I just think it best if you would all cooperate with me on this one,” Harold tells Shaw sternly, but his voice carries to each person on the terminal.

“Can we put it up to a vote?” Root asks, dashing smirk coming across her amused face. Harold looks at her, flustered.

“A  _vote_?” He asks, not believing the words. “Since when have we put things to a  _vote_! This isn’t some  _democracy_ , it-”

“You’re right,” Shaw tells him in an alarmingly cool tone. He stops speaking to look at her. “This  _isn’t_  a democracy, but do you  _really_  want to upset a room full of people with  _guns_ , Harold?” Her voice is condescending, as if he is in the wrong, and just willing him to admit it. His eyes widen slightly at the near threat, but he holds his ground.

“You all need to learn to work with different people,” Harold says, scanning over each person in turn. Root drops her playful tone and her eyes bore into him seriously.

“How we operate now-  _who_  we operate  _with_  now- works. Why change it?”

“She’s got a point, Finch,” John cuts in, and Harold gives him an exasperated look, eyes calling him a traitor.

“Do you want to know the real reason?” Harold fumes at last.

“Honesty is always the best policy,” Root tells him, hiding a shit-eating grin, and he narrows his eyes at her.

“Miss. Shaw here has had some close encounters lately,” Harold tells them all, eyes directed on Shaw. She opens her mouth in protest, but he cuts her off. “Need I remind you of the department store?” He asks, and she says nothing. He waits for an answer.

“No,” she growls, eyes smoldering as her fists clench at her sides. He looks at her indifferently, knowing he’s in the right.

“In order to keep you as safe as possible, I want you with someone who will not play along with your whimsical hero complex.”

“I don’t  _have_  a-”

“You aren’t worried about your own safety, so by default, someone  _else_  must.” She watches him, lips pursing in anger.

“So why not pair me with  _John_ , then?” Shaw asks, and Harold can’t hold back a haughty scoff.

“You and  _him_?” Harold asks, a laugh escaping his lips- much to Shaw’s dismay. “The two of you are just as- if not more so- dangerous together.”

“Since when haven’t we been able to handle ourselves?” John asks him, and Harold gives him a lazy, cross look.

“Name me  _one_  time the both of you had a civil mission together.” John and Shaw exchange glances, and John shrugs.

“I’m sure there was one in there somewhere,” he assures Harold off-handedly.

“And what’s so bad about  _me_?” Lionel chimes in with annoyance, and Shaw turns her head back to look at him.

“I don’t like the way you  _dress_ ,” she tells him hostilely, only feeding his irritation.

“Well why not?” He counters heatedly. She gives him a disdainful look-over before a snide reply.

“It matches your personality.” Fusco sees red at the words, but says nothing else. Harold looks between them, brow knit in a new worry. Shaking his head slightly, he looks down at his clasped hands, composing himself. When he looks up again, his eyes are as hard as they were at the start.

“Head out,” he instructs, turning to lean back over his desk. Clicking a few times, his computer hums to life, and he unlocks it. “I’ll send you each your numbers’ details once you are  _gone_.” Met by grumbles from Shaw and a contemptuous glare from Root, the four walk to the exit of the station.

“I don’t  _need_  to be kept  _safe_ ,” Shaw seethes once they are out of earshot. “I’ve taken care of myself this long.”

“You’re not the only one upset with the new work arrangement,” Lionel mutters, still stung by her previous comment. She gives him a get-over-it sneer from the side of her mouth, but otherwise ignores him.

“Why don’t we just swap outside?” Root suggests, and they all nod in mutual agreement.

“Heard that,” Harold’s voice comes through on their coms, and Shaw lets out an antagonized groan.

“Could you pretend you didn’t?” She grumbles under her breath, eyes cast in anger.

“Which is  _why_ ,” he continues without acknowledging her comment, “I am only giving the information to Mr. Reese and Detective Fusco. I trust that they will be the level mind on the field.”

“The faith you put it us is  _astounding_ , Harry,” Root remarks with sarcasm and a smile, but Shaw only rolls her eyes.

“C'mon, Lionel,” she growls, dismayed with having no way around Harold’s orders. “Let’s just get this over with.”

__________\ We’ll Find You /__________

“It’s not every day we get two numbers in two different places,” Root says pleasantly from the passenger seat. John takes his eyes from the road to glance at her skeptically.

“Okay, so it’s about every  _other_  day,” Root admits, looking away from him and out the passenger window. “I am just trying to make small talk, John.” He doesn’t respond, just keeps straight on course.

“So who is this guy?” Reese asks at last, and Root picks up his phone to read the file.

“Tom Ripley,” Root reads, taking in the photo attached to the file. He has dirty blonde hair that sweeps around the front of his forehead, and piercing blue eyes hidden behind thick, rounded-square glasses. His file says he’s twenty-five, but with such a brightening smile, he looks no more than twenty. “Known con artist, but no one has been able to prove it.”

“ _That_  can get a man killed,” John acknowledges, turning into the Penn Station parking lot. Root sees a reminder pop onto John’s phone, and clicks on it curiously.

“Who’s  _Iris_?” Root coos, delighted in the shift it brings to John’s face.

“None of your business,” he replies in a level tone, searching for a parking spot. Root gives him a devilish grin.

“Are you  _hiding_  something from me, John?” She asks, voice drawn up in mock hurt.

He puts it in park, then lets the engine die, swiping the phone from her hand with murder in his eyes. Her smile only widens, and they wait for any sign of their number. The minutes pass by dully, neither speaking. Root, feeling bored with the silence John doesn’t seem to mind, looks into the rear view mirror with a smile.

“Hey, Sweetie,” Root greets to the air, eyes sparking as she lets her mind roam. She lets it travel down the busy New York Streets, coming to a stop somewhere still unknown, but holding Shaw in its grasp. Her smile deepens, imagining the annoyed flick of Shaw’s eyes at hearing her voice out of the blue. “How’s your day out with Lionel?”

“Would you believe me if I said I miss being out with you?” Shaw responds with a deep-set contempt, hard glare undoubtedly plastered to the detective. Root feels a flutter in her stomach, and her heart comes to her throat, keeping her from saying a word. She sits up a little straighter in her seat, head cast down slightly with self-contained excitement, and battles to keep the robust grin from taking over her face. Her eyes travel to the passenger window, trying to rid herself of the electric volts shooting along her nerves.

“You’ve got nothing to complain about,” Lionel grumbles defensively, his voice picking up through Shaw’s com. “You’re  _lucky_  to be spending they day with me.”

“I’m about as lucky as a pig in a  _butcher’s_  shop,” she shoots back hotly, and Root has to bite her lip to keep the hearty smile away.

“I miss you too, Sam,” Root tells her, almost quietly, trying to sneak the comment by. There is a silence on the line. _Eye roll_ , Root thinks to herself, practically seeing it directed at her.

“He’s here,” John tells her, popping open the door. Root follows out quickly, feeling the salty, wet air hit her face. The rain is steady, but the drops are thinner than before, making it easier to walk through. Peering forward, Root can just make out that mop of hair and glasses before they steal away into the train station. Root and John pick up the pace, not wanting to loose him.

“At least you’ve got action,” Shaw complains, and Root can hear her words are muffled. “All I have is a stake-out and some awful take-out.”

“Sounds like fun,” Root quips back, half smile peeking through as she follows their number through the dense crowd. Sounds echo off of every polished surface, and footsteps are like bowling balls dropped from six stories up. Tom looks back at them quickly, icy eyes sending frost into Root’s heart at the slightest gaze, and he turns his head back, continuing to walk. The kindness she saw in the photo is all but forgotten.  _He seems paranoid…_

Again, he looks back, eyes hard on Root and John- then he runs. “Gotta go, Shaw,” Root tells her, starting to sprint after the man. From her seat in the driver’s side, Shaw leans back, frustrated.  _Why is she able to chase people God knows where, and I’m stuck watching a frat house?_ She fumes, looking at the large building set on the outskirts of a college dormitory. As long as they’ve been there, students have scrambled in and staggered out, not one of them their guy.  _It’s only three in the afternoon, is it even legal for them to be this drunk?_

“Stop!” Shaw can hear John calling after someone in an authoritative voice, feet treading hard against the ground. She can hear Root’s breathing in her ear as she runs, and- with a quick glance at Lionel- turns the volume up discreetly, wanting in on at least some of the action.

“Tom,  _stop_!” Root yells, and her heels make a high pitched screech as she takes a quick turn. There is the sound of disgruntled people, and a woman yelps. There is a thick smack on the ground, and Shaw’s mouth curves into a pained _‘Ooh,_ ’ eyes glowing with amusement. She hears the whistle of a train, and a conductor calling out on a loud speaker.

“Train to Baltimore, now departing.” She can hear the thick chugging as wheels start to turn, and machinery whizzes with the strain of pulling the train forward.

“Don’t do it!” Shaw hears John’s voice loud and demanding as more people grumble, being pushed to the side. There is the sound of a heave, as if someone is pushing all of their strength into one long jump.

“Well,  _great_ ,” Root fumes. Shaw can almost see the exasperation in her chocolate eyes. “Now what do we do?”

“We drive to Baltimore,” John replies simply, and Root shifts, unsatisfied.

“He might be  _dead_  by Baltimore,” she retorts, then her heels click devastatingly loud against the platform’s heavy tile. _She better not be…_  Shaw’s thoughts trail off as she concentrates on every sound.

“Root? What are you  _doing_?!” John’s voice is octaves too high, infuriated but worried, and his own footsteps chase after hers. Shaw can hear Root’s breath quickening as she picks up speed, the sound of her heels a steady drumming.  _No, no…_ Shaw sits up in her seat, left hand gripping the door’s handle, every muscle tense. She can feel her heart beat- fast as cheetah and roaring like a lion- so many scenarios flashing before her eyes, each worse than its predecessor. The sounds of the train’s wheels grow closer until the point where their constant, deep wailing pierces Shaw’s ears.  _Don’t you dare…_

“Root.” Shaw barks, the one simple word holding a thousand pounds of force. She doesn’t seem to hear.  _Or maybe she doesn’t want to._  Shaw can hear as John’s footsteps approach, met all around by alarmed shrieks from the crowd.  _Come on John_ , Shaw thinks, knuckles white and teeth clenched.  _Get to her._

Suddenly, the clicking stops. Shaw forgets how to breathe. John lets out a whoosh of air, and there is silence. Everything stands still for a moment, though it spans for an eternity. Then, everything resumes.

Like a tsunami, every sound comes crashing in, magnified by the terror of the unknown. Shaw hears a grinding of metal on metal, something tearing, and Root yelp. Shaw finds herself bolt upright, back stiff and muscles burning from holding so tense for so long. There is a stumbling, fumbling noise of things crashing and loads dropping. People talk in loud whispers, and gasp in shock. A low, agonized moan escapes from Root’s lips.

“John, what happened,” Shaw demands, feeling sick with the worms crawling about in her stomach. “ _John_.”

There is silence.

She can feel her fingers twitching in panic, and Lionel’s worried gaze is focused right on her- fixed on a deep-set fear in Shaw’s eyes he’s never seen before. But she can only look straight ahead. She swallows a rock in her throat before speaking again. “What the  _hell_  is going on, Reese.”

“Sorry,” he huffs out with a scratch in his voice. “Ear wig flew out.”

“ _Reese_.”

“She’s fine, she’s…” He trails off, unable to tell such a bold faced lie. Shaw’s stomach drops, her heart right behind. Shaw hears minute shuffles, and the voices come distant to her ear.

“You okay?” John asks in a hush.

“Mm.. _hmm_..” Root replies, a strain set deep in her voice. Shaw can take it no more, and her tension snaps.

“Meet me at the station.  _Now_.” Shaw commands, revving the car’s engine.

“Shaw, we’ve got this,” John assures her, voice once more loud in the earwig. “'You stay there, I’ll take her to Harold.”

“Harold’s the reason we’re  _in_  this mess!” Shaw hisses, rage flaring in her, making up for the concern she doesn’t know how to voice. “I’m on my way.”

“Miss. Shaw, please,” Harold’s level voice comes to her with traces of sympathy. Some how, this only makes her blood boil hotter. “I will tend to whatever has happened to Miss. Groves. She’ll be here when you get back.”

“It’s not your choice anymore, Harold,” Shaw spits venom at him before swiping the earpiece off. She goes to put the car in drive, but Lionel sticks out a hand, stopping her. She looks at him with vicious eyes, but he shows nothing but understanding.

“Listen, kid, Glasses is right on this one. You just need to calm do-”

“I  _am_  calm,” Shaw retorts, and Fusco gives her a serious glare.

“We have someone to take care of here. We can’t just leave them.”

“That’s your problem, Lionel,” Shaw tells him easily. “I don’t  _do_  guilt.”

“Well, I’m not leaving,” Fusco tells her firmly. Shaw looks over at him and a devious smile curls onto her face.

“Then it’s settled,” she says simply, and he raises his eyebrows, surprised by the seemingly easy win. Shaw drops the smile, in its place are deadly eyes and a voice carved from steel. “Get out.”

_________\ Semper Simul /__________

Within a few swift minutes, Shaw was parked a few blocks away and already to the station, a mixture of anger and worry swirling within her like a tempest. She barely noticed the rain, her mind only set on two things:  _anger and worry_.

Storming down into the station, Shaw can hear voices coming from the terminal. A moment later, she sees John and Harold standing on either side of Root, who sits in Harold’s desk chair. She’s pushed away from the computer, and Harold has out a small medical kit. Shaw’s eyes catch Root’s, who smiles warmly at seeing her.

“What are  _you_  doing here?” Root asks, voice pleasant and welcoming. Harold turns to look at her, and John’s eyes travel her over.

“Where’s Lionel?” John asks, and Shaw stalks forward.

“Covering my shift,” she responds, scooping up the first aid kit before kneeling in front of Root. John lets out a small smirk, while Harold watches her with a lack of words. Shaw takes in Root’s bloodied knuckle, and how she holds her wrist, and immediately sets to work.

“I’m  _fine_ , Sameen, really,” Root tells her affectionately, but Shaw doesn’t take it at that.

“What were you  _thinking_?” Shaw asks, dabbing antiseptic into Root’s cuts, and she winces slightly, but doesn’t pull away from Shaw’s hold. She watches a minute as Shaw holds onto her hand, keeping it in a less painful position as she cleans the small wounds.

“That it works in the movies?” Root offers, a smile playing on her lips as her heart takes flight. She can’t seem to take her eyes away from Shaw, mesmerized by her deep concentration. Taking Root’s wrist in both her hands, she twists it back and forth, much to Root’s pain.

“You’re an  _idiot_ ,” Shaw mutters, shaking her head. Root bites her lip.

“Sor-”

“Not  _you_ ,” Shaw says crossly, bringing poisonous eyes to John. He gives her a questioning glare. “You.”

“Me?” He asks, the smallest of smirks pulling at the side of his mouth.

“Yes,  _you_. How could you let her  _do_  something like that?”

“You think I  _knew_  she was going to try and jump on the train?”

“You should have at least been  _prepared_  for it.”

“How could I ha-”

“ _Enough_ ,” Harold cuts in, voice sounding uncharacteristically tired. Shaw turns her gaze to him, a flame burning deep within them.

“And don’t even get me  _started_  on you.” She pulls her eyes away from him and back to Root’s wrist. “It’s sprained,” Shaw tells her, all malice gone from her words. Digging through the kit, she pulls out a thick gauze, and begins to wrap it firmly around Root’s wrist. Once done, she wraps an ace bandage over top of it, then sits back on her heels, eyeing up her handy-work.

Root twists her wrist back and forth, a smile on her slightly pained face. “You take care of me so well,” Root dotes, looking to Shaw kindly. Shaw rolls her eyes, looking away from Root’s stare.

“Miss. Groves?” Harold beckons, and she looks over at him, large smile going no where. “Do you remember the day you told me you wished you had a pet?”

“Yes…” Root replies, smile faltering, unsure where he is going with the statement. He gives his head a slight flick Shaw’s way, a quick smile lighting his face before falling away. Root looks back to Shaw with an even larger grin. Shaw looks at her, jaw set and eyes cold, before standing. She turns to leave, feeling a chagrin heat prickling at her cheeks and ears.

Annoyed, she grumbles under her breath. “I am  _not_  her  _pet_.”


End file.
